Artistic Stupidity
by lamentomori
Summary: New tattoos are itchy but scratching them is very much not allowed. A short tale in which Colt helps Punk take his mind off just how itchy new ink can be. Warnings: 7 Sins Continuity, 2nd person Colt PoV, Slash (Colt/Punk), Smut, Profanity, hand-job, oral sex.


Warnings:_7 Sins Continuity_ 2nd person Colt PoV, Slash (Colt/Punk), Smut, Profanity, hand-job, oral.

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"Do I_ want_ to know why you're on the floor this time?" You ask as you step over him. He's lying on your floor, in the space between the sofa and the coffee table, looking annoyed and shirtless. You flop onto the sofa, lying down. You stare at the TV for a while but when he makes an irritated noise, you lean over to look down at him, a grin on your lips.

"Why the fuck, did I this was a good idea?" He thumps the floor with his fist and looks even more annoyed.

"What?" You mutter, staring down at him.

"This!" He hisses, waving at the three day old ink on his chest and bangs his fist on the ground again. "Fucking itchiest thing _ever_." You laugh at him as he thumps his fist again. "_Fuck_."

"Uh, poor Punkers?" You aren't really sure if its sympathy or empathy he's after and you're certain, you've neither to offer him. The tattoo itself is nowhere near complete, the outline of something that will be rather beautiful, when it's finished at least, for now, it just looks _incomplete_. He glares up at you and you shrug. "What?"

"Pity me!" He snaps, scowling and banging his fist again. You ruffle the hair on his head and attempt to look something close to sympathetic. "Not helpful, fucker." He scowls and you shrug, flopping back down and staring at the TV.

"I'm Jewish, no tattoos, no pity from me, Punkers." You tell him as you grab the remote and begin flicking through the stations.

"Regular fucking Moses, you are, Cabana." He scoffs and thumps the floor again.

"Most modest man to not write Torah." You agree solemnly and lean over to glance down at him again. He scowls up at you and you laugh at him. "Isn't there like some magic potion you can put on it?"

"_Magic potion_? The fuck do you think this is? Warcraft?" You shrug and mess up his hair once more.

"I'm sure you'll manage, you've got like a million already." Well, perhaps not a million but certainly, he's had plenty tattoos over the time you've known him. You can't help but wonder if he whined and assaulted this many floors, before he had you to indulge his petulance. He sighs heavily and turns away from you, watching the TV. You settle on some shit on Comedy Central, absently chuckling and hoping the people downstairs are out or they are going to have some serious questions about banging for you, _again_.

"Distract me." He snarls eventually, his eyes closed, he's taken to lying on his hands to keep from itching.

"Watch TV?" You run one finger along the line of his nose and tap the end of it.

"_Distract _me." He opens his eyes and _looks_ at you.

"Ah." You nod and sit up. "C'mere, lie down." You stand and let him take your place, his eyebrow raised expectantly. If you're honest, you're not certain how to _distract_ him, something that won't have any contact with his chest, obviously but what you're not sure. You stroke his stomach absently, trying to work out what to do. You could blow him but really you're horrible at it and don't overly enjoy it. Fucking him is pretty much out, every position you can think of will bring _something_ into contact with his new ink. "Wait." You tell him and go fetch the little bottle of lube. You decide that you'll give him a helping hand, get his mind off the itchiness of his own artistic stupidity, for a while at least.

When you come back to the living room, he's not moved, save for lying on his hands again, he looks up at you as you hover over him, pulling an oddly questioning face.

"I'm not fucking you." You tell him, as you pour some lube into one hand. You unzip his fly and take his cock out, then rub your hands together, warming the lube before taking him in your hand and stroking him slowly.

"Even if I ask _nice_?" He mutters, eyes drifting closed, hips rising to match your strokes.

"You'd manage to scratch it." You tilt your head towards his chest; his eyes snap open to look at you incredulously

"Itchy and cock-blocking, _great_." He sounds genuinely irritated but his eyes are more than a little amused. You use your other hand to open his pants further and cradle his balls, rolling them gentle. He moans softly and bucks into your hand.

"It's _me_ that's getting cock-blocked, Punkers." You mutter and he grins at you.

"Could return the favour." You do find it odd that he's still lying on his hands but then again your best friend is a very odd creature sometimes and he does seem to enjoy playing little games of self-control with himself.

"Hmm, lemme finish you off, first." You squeeze his length and move your hand more quickly, his flesh has firmed up somewhat but he's not _fully_ hard yet. You keep stroking him, paying attention to the head, your hand moving in short quick jerks. He matches your pace easily, moving his hips with your hand; he seems to be looking to come quickly. It takes a surprisingly large amount of self-restraint to not touch the ink on his chest, as it rises and falls more quickly with his encroaching orgasm. The fresh ink seems to pull at your attention more and more, you wonder how many more sessions it's going to take to be completely finished, how it will look when it's done. He's not told you anything about what he wants it to look like, like every other thing he has etched into his skin. It will be a point of mild interest for you when it's finished. You've spent a long time with him, spent a long time dealing with his complaints over itchy, healing tattoos. Every time, though, you enjoy seeing the ink heal, enjoy seeing the newest addition to his life, permanently marked on his skin. You shake yourself from your rambling thoughts and focus on him, his reactions, the way his breathing has speeded up considerably. "C'mon Punkers." He glares at you slightly; you chuckle softly and lean over to kiss him, your hand moving more quickly. You pull away from him and squeeze his balls gently; your hand working as quickly as you can. When he comes, his back arches gracefully, hips pumping up into your hand, a little sheen of sweat across his skin. You stroke him through his orgasm, feeling his cock twitching in your hand. You raise your cum-covered fingers to his lips and he pulls a face but licks them tentatively. The sight of him licking his own cum from your hand, goes straight to your cock, you feel it twitching expectantly in your pants. You lean down to kiss him, then tuck him back into his pants and adjust your own, considering whether you should push for a return of the favour or not. He looks at you, a lazy little grin on his face.

"C'mere." He says, that grin still on his lips. "I'll blow you." You raise an eyebrow and he squirms on the sofa, twisting so his legs are up against the wall, his head hanging off the edge.

"You sure?" You stand, taking your cock out of your pants and stroking it a few times. This position puts you very much in charge. You could easily press the advantage and just _fuck_ his throat without him being able to do very much about it. He nods and grins at you.

"Just." He sighs and shakes his head, his tone conveys the things he doesn't say, _you know me, my limits, don't push them_. You smile at him and tilt his chin back slightly further, stroking his jaw and slowly draw the head of your cock over his lips and he opens his mouth, letting you into him.

"Lemme know, okay?" You tell him, he makes an odd grumbling noise and attempts to nod but realises that would be futile, half way through. You rock your hips forward slowly, watching his adam's apple bob as he swallows. He's taken maybe half of your cock in when his hands come to rest against the back of your thighs; they pull you towards him, forcing your cock down his throat. The feeling of his tight throat contracting around you is incredible. You stay buried in his throat for a while, feeling it ripple around you, until his hands push at your legs. You pull back and let him gasp for breath. When he moves one hand back around your legs and pulls against it slightly, you move forward slowly, fucking his throat carefully. It's stays slow and almost gentle for sometime but his hand, at the back of your leg, keeps growing more insistent in its drawing you forward each time.

"Cabana." He says when you've withdrawn from him full, his voice slightly hoarse; you move back further, let him raise his head to look at you, his eyes murky and glazed. "_Fuck_ me." You chuckle softly and nod, his head flops back down. "C'mon then, Colt, get on with it." You thrust forward firmly, he makes a little choking noise but his hands stay where they are, both firmly pulling you to him. You let go of your self-restraint, at least as much as you dare, fucking his tight throat firmly, staying buried in him longer each time. You rest one hand on his neck; feel your own cock moving in his throat. It's an odd sensation, feeling it from the inside and the outside, odd but hot all the same. Your eyes are focused on his new ink, watching the outlines of the designs as his chest heaves, you wonder if sweating is good or bad for new ink but decide that it doesn't matter too much right now, not when his throat is tight and his hands are demanding. He makes another choking sound and you pull out, tilting his head up, meeting his watery eyes.

"Okay?" You ask him softly, he nods, gasping for air and leans up to nuzzle at your balls. His hands draw your hips forward and you angle your cock so it slides down his throat once more. You rest your hand over his throat again, hearing him make a soft little noise, one you're desperately familiar with, the one he makes when he's desperately content with his current predicament. It puts your mind at ease and you begin fucking him in earnest, chasing your own orgasm, barely remembering to let him catch his breath. You come, shuddering and quiet, your legs weak and trembling, as you feel his throat working to swallow your cum. You pull out and collapse more than sit on the floor in front of the sofa, catching your breath, as he rearranges himself to lie on it, panting softly.

"Okay?" You ask him, one of his hands scratches at your scalp.

"I'm good." His voice sounds croaky and hoarse but otherwise fine, you half turn to look at him from the corner of your eye, he's smiling softly and focussed on the TV, his fingers still absently scratching at you scalp. "_Fuck_!" The peace lasts all of a half hour, before his fist is thumping off the back of the sofa and he's swearing again. You sigh and wonder if there's a less strenuous way to keep him distracted.

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_A/N Today I am hungover and yet accomplished two whole things, writing smut and making stew, I feel that you would all be more impressed with the stew, it's genuinely epic. :D_

_Hey, you made it to the end? Well done, you see that little box down there? Yup, that big empty one, why don't you use it tell me what you thought! It's just an idea, no pressure or anything just, you know... It'd be nice. Heck, even if what you think isn't nice, I'd still like to hear it, I mean opinions are like noses, everyone's got one and I'd like to hear yours, opinion that is, not nose, you can't hear those._

_UH... yeah..._

_Sorry you can't have any stew... It is really good. :3_


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